


Home Sweet Home

by peggys



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-29 23:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14483880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggys/pseuds/peggys
Summary: Steve comes home from a mission, battered and beaten, and you, like every other time this happens, patch him up.





	Home Sweet Home

Steve has never been one to think before he does things. Ever. Not back in the 40s when he picked fights when everything that moved, not when he joined the Avengers, and definitely not when he was on missions.

It’s kind of his brand. His trademark, if you will. He doesn’t use his head, and that’s okay, as long as using his head doesn’t directly affect his safety. Although, most of the time, it does. So really, it isn’t okay, and you just try to stay out of it and let his teammates scold him for the reckless impulses he acts upon.

* * *

 

The only time you ever got involved were on nights much like this, where he come home, stitches on some part of his face, his torso bandaged up, limping, but still telling you he was fine. You know he was lying when he said it, he always is, but you brush it off, knowing that if he really, truly needs you, he’ll say something.

However, that isn’t ever going to stop you from bugging him constantly about if he’s okay, or if he needs anything, while simultaneously telling him how reckless he is, and how if he ever comes home in such bad shape again, you’re going to start going on missions with him to watch over his every move. Sometimes you felt more like his mother than his girlfriend.

Steve walks into the front door of your newly purchased large suburban home, which you’ve had all to yourself for the last three weeks. You’re cleaning the countertop in the kitchen - sweeping crumbs into your hand with a paper towel, the remnants of the dinner you’d made for yourself not long before that - when you hear the door open and his bag drop to the floor next to his feet.

An excitement surges through you, one that’s reserved for moments like these, and you drop the paper towel into the trashcan, rushing into the living room where your boyfriend just walked in.

He’s got a few cuts and bruises (visible ones, at least), but overall he looks okay. His face lights up the moment his eyes meet yours, and he opens his arms to embrace you, kissing the top of your head when you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest.

“I missed you.” You tell him, squeezing him tightly.

“Ah-” he winces slightly when you do that, “I missed you too.”

You let go of him, letting your hands take their place on your hips and you look up at him again. He’s giving you an apologetic smile, and you know right away he’s badly hurt himself again.

“What did you do this time?” You ask him, taking his hand and pulling him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. “Nothing bad. I’m okay, really.” He sits down on top of the cover of the toilet anyway, knowing that you won’t believe him.

“Telling me what happened makes it easier for both of us. You know that, Steve.” You say, taking out the first aid kit you keep under the sink.

Steve always refuses medical attention on the jet back home, saying that he had better things to do. Those “better things” are usually napping or texting you until he arrives back in New York. So you patching him up could probably be considered a tradition at this point, seeing as it’s what you do immediately after you greet each other when he gets home from his missions.

“I just got a few cuts, that’s all.” You sigh, knowing that he isn’t telling you the full extent of it. You open up the box, taking out gauze, and then opening up the cabinet over the sink to retrieve the hydrogen peroxide. You pour it over the wad of gauze in your hand, placing the bottle down on the counter of the sink.

“Take off your shirt.” You order, earning a smirk from the injured soldier in front of you.

”Only if you do first.” He smirks, looking up at you with his bright blue eyes.

“Steve,” you warn, glaring at him, “take off your shirt.”

“Fine.” He complies, reaching behind his neck and pulling the shirt over his head, tossing it onto the tile floor.

You see the skin of his torso, once soft and delicate, covered in black and blue, stained with blood from cuts that you guess haven’t been cleaned at all yet.

“You really need to accept the help you’re given right when this happens.” You say, dabbing the spots gently with the gauze in your hand. His face scrunches in pain, but he’s not vocal about it the stinging sensation, so for now, he’s okay.

You make your way up his body, finally finishing in making sure that none of the wounds on his torso are going to open up again.

You stand up and straighten your back, kissing his forehead after you stretch yourself from being kneeled down on the bathroom floor for a few minutes.

You try to work out how you’ll stand to clean his face, and eventually settle on just standing, bending so you can see. Steve takes your free hand with one of his, placing it on his shoulder and pulling your waist so that you’re moving towards him.

“What are you doing?” You ask softly, steadying yourself against him, but not taking your eyes off of where you’re tending to.

“Come sit down, you’ll get a better angle.” He urges, putting his hands on your lower back and pulling you over his legs so that you’re straddling his thighs.

“You’re distracting me, Steven.” You say, not even making an effort to get back to where you were standing before as you continue to gently wipe the - now dried - blood away from his face.

“That’s okay,” his hands trail to your hips, gently tugging downwards so you’re sitting on his lap now, “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you more.” You reply monotonously, still concentrated on what you were doing, but completely meaning it.

He chuckles at your lack of enthusiasm, taking his hand off your abdomen and moving it to your delicate fingers next to his eyebrow, gently pulling them away from his face, which forces you to look at him.

“Can we please get to this later? I’m hungry. And tired.” He whines, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb, his eyes briefly darting to your lips before springing back to your (y/e/c) orbs.

“You’re so annoying.” You huff, standing up and throwing out the damp gauze. You take his hand, pulling him off of where he’s seated and out of the bathroom.

“What are we doing?” He laughs, following you to wherever you’re going.

“Going to bed.”

“It isn’t even eleven yet.”

“I didn’t say we were sleeping.”


End file.
